


The Mark of Hircine

by Taransay



Series: The Wolves of Jorrvaskr [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taransay/pseuds/Taransay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man is accused of being a werewolf. You must prove his innocence before its too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: Those who Know About Wolves

The upstairs tavern of Candlehearth Hall is alive with gossip, rumour and suspicion. A body has been found not far from the city gates. Ripped apart. The words ‘The Butcher’ and ‘werewolf’, are banded about, and then drowned out by the bard’s anti-Empire song.

Ciinnafil lowers her gaze.

You know what she is going to say before she even says it.

‘I’m sorry.’ She takes a sip of water. ‘You’ve waited three days to see me and, well, that’s just not my area of expertise.’

The heaviness of dread fills you and you slump into your chair. It has taken you weeks to get to Windhelm. You have been fuelled purely on the hope of discovering the truth behind the mark on your arm, only to reach a dead end.

A Nord staggers past singing to the bard’s song in a drunken slur.  
A pain manifests in your chest – a longing for Jorrvaskr. You think about the long tables lined up in rows. The red banners rippling in the rising warm air coming from the open fire. The dry smells of ale as the kegs are cracked open. The clunk of mug against mug, and mug against wood, and Torvar asking if there’s any more before falling asleep.

Suddenly Ciinnafil leaps off her chair like someone has shoved a hot poker into her. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before?’ In her enthusiasm she knocks her food onto the floor. ‘Come on, I know someone who can help you.’

 

Windhelm is painted grey. Blocky, grey stones make up looming stonewalls that pen the houses and shops into the city.

Ciinnafil pulls up the hood on her cloak.

At first you think she is leading you downwards into the broken and warren-like streets of what has been dubbed the 'Grey Quarter’ due to its Dunmer residents. Instead she turns and leads you up steps, and away from the labyrinthine, squashed streets of the world below. 

The wind sweeps down the alleyways, blowing flakes of snow.

Ice sticks to your eyelids. Snowflakes stick to your eyelashes, making the world around look blurred and soft. You blink them away, and then remove the rest by wiping your hand across your face.

The snow muffles every sound, apart from snow crunching under your feet.

The city walls retreat. Up here there are small courtyards with primitive benches, and bare shrubs that tremble in the ice-tipped breeze.

'I don’t know how he’s done it,’ Ciinnafil says. Her void-like eyes dart from side to side. 'Mainly Nords who live up here, and bet you’ve seen how welcoming some of them are to none Nords.’ She snorts. 'I suspect he rents the place. Done a favour for someone and they owe him, or something.’

A grimy coloured house lurks in the corner of a courtyard. There’s an empty stone pot next to the front door with a twig - that might have been a plant - sticking out of the top. The front door is accompanied by two thin windows either side. The windows are sealed shut with wooden shutters.

'A warning,’ Ciinnafil says, 'Elien lives alone. He doesn’t interact much with the outside world.’ She raps her knuckles against the door, and flecks of wood splinter off. 'So he may come across a bit… gruff. I can only apologise in advance.’

With no immediate reply, Ciinnafil pounds on the door.

'Elien! Open up! I know you’re in there! You might be able to avoid the Aldmeri Dominion, but you can’t avoid me!’ She turns, looks up at you and grins. 'One moment,’ she says, and kicks the door.

'You can’t ignore me forever Elien!’ Her words come out in a sing-song tone. ‘I’m not going away.’

Ciinnafil draws back her foot, and before she can kick it again, the door shunts open an inch.

A long, angular face peers out from the crack in the doorway. 'Gods spare me,’ The Altmer in the doorway snaps. 'It’s you.’  
The door groans and shudders as the Altmer pushes the door open further.

'What took you so long?’ Ciinnafil says. 'I’ve brought someone to see you.’

'So I can see,’ Elien says. There’s a note of distaste in his voice. He stifles a yawn with the back of his slender hand. There are dark rims beneath his golden eyes.

'Some of us have been up before the sun,’ he says. 'Working.’ He stares, his golden eyes like beacons. ‘Now, whatever it is. Whatever you are selling, I am not interested. No trinkets or talismans, no potions -’

'But my friend -’

Elien snaps his head towards you. He looks you up and down.

A chill runs up your spine and your suspect it is not just because of he cold. You look at the ground; shift your weight from one foot to another.

'I do not want anything off them either. Go away.’

Elien pushes his shoulder into the door, is about to shunt it closed, but Ciinnafil wedges her foot into the gap in the doorway, and tuts.

'Not very polite, is it Elien?’ she says. 'Not after I brought my friend to help you with your studies.’

Elien stops trying to sever Ciinnafil’s foot with the door. 'Whatever can you mean?’

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. All of a sudden you feel like a bargaining chip.

Ciinnafil leans towards Elien. 'Werewolf,’ she whispers. 'My friend can turn into -’

'I know what a werewolf is,’ Elien snaps. As quick as a thief pocketing coin, his gaze is back upon you. 'There’s no cure. Happy hunting.’

The Altmer kicks the Bosmer’s foot away from the doorway, and slams the door in Ciinnafil’s face.

'But, they’ve seen Hircine!’ she calls through the wood.

* * *

Elien’s main living area is boarded by bookcases stuffed with tatty books. There’s an empty fireplace against one wall, and from the ceiling hangs a crude, wooden chandelier adorned with candle stubs.

The front door slams behind you.

Elien wrings his hands. Ciinnafil isn’t with him, but a ‘thank you’ comes from the other side of the front door.

Elien looks over his shoulder, towards the door. 'Go away,’ he growls.  
He extends a long, thin finger and directs you to one of the elaborately carved, wooden chairs surrounding a square table in the centre of the room.

'She is a good girl,’ he says, and takes the chair opposite you. 'But like all Bosmer, she is a pain in the head and has the attention span of a drunken Nix Hound.’ He sighs and fixes his gaze on you through steepled fingers. ‘You happen to befriend them one night, and then they never leave you alone.' 

Elien reaches for a stone decanter perched upon a stack of books. He pours himself a drink into a tall, thin glass. 'They are like dogs.’ He sneers. 'Does not matter how many times you kick them, they always come back for more. But she does have her uses, bless her. Drink?’

You decline the offer.

'Last night, was that you?’ He chuckles, and adjusts the embroidered pillow beneath him. 

Your heart suddenly increases; you tilt your head to one side and think, last night?

'Fancy a late night snack, did you?’

The drumbeat of your pulse increases, and you ask what he means.

'Last night,’ he says, a smile begins to cross his face. ‘Werewolf attack.’

A curse forms quick in your mind and you direct it at Ciinnafil for being so flippant about your condition. The weight of your weapon is reassuring, as you look from front door to windows – any possible exit.

Elien catches your eye. A slow smile spreads across his face. He swishes his drink around his glass.

'Could not have been you of course, they have the man in custody. Found him right at the scene of the crime.’ He licks his lips. 'One of the guards asked me to take a look at the body.’

Elien sinks into his chair. 'You see, I am a bit of an expert around here. They take me very seriously.’ He brings the glass to his lips and gazes at you over the rim with narrow, feline eyes.

'I study manbeast of all kind. But lycanthropy is my speciality. Most importantly I am a scholar of the Daedric Prince many know as Hircine.’

He lurches upright in his seat, slams the glass onto the table, causing droplets of wine to splatter onto the wooden table.

The muscles in your arms and legs tense. You ball your toes up in your boots.  
'But here is my dilemma. You are my little conundrum. I have spoken to a lot of people throughout my years. I have spoken to a lot of time wasters. You are not a time waster are you? Altmer lives are long, but I consider every second I spend on Nirn to be precious, and let us just say, any time waster who enters my domain never exits in a happy mood.’

Elien’s erratic moves unnerve you. You lean forwards in the chair, ready yourself to get up and leave.

The wind howls down the chimney. Flakes of snow fall like petals onto the black ash in the hearth.

'I have spoken to people who have said they have seen Hircine, even conversed with him. They were all liars of course. Why should I think you are any different?’

You stand up, ready to rid yourself of Elien’s company.

The chair tousles the threadbare carpet.

'Let me make this very clear. I am not interested in your visions, your fantasies. Anyone of us can have those. A bit of Moon Sugar,’ his voice rises, ‘Skooma, and we can all see and speak with Hircine.’ He stands and points a finger at you. 'That is it, is it not? You are a Skooma addict. I should have known. Ciinnafil is always wasting my time. Get out. Get out now before I make you regret you ever came looking for Elien.’

You clench your hands into fists; stride towards the door and long for the cold outside to reassure you that you are no longer in his house.

A hand latches around your wrist.

‘Where are you going? I have not finished with you yet!’

You turn, Elien’s grip is like a bear trap.

Frustration and confusion combine. You shunt yourself sideways into him.  
He claws at your shoulder with his freehand, yanking away your cloak and tearing the sleeve of your jerkin.

He stops, all of a sudden as still as a statue, and stares at your exposed arm.  
‘Oh,’ Elien says. His eyes are as wide as a fox’s who has just stumbled into a household’s larder full of salted meat.

‘Oh! Oh, oh! But this!’

Again, you try to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens like a noose.  
'This. Now this is special. This changes everything.’

Elien’s smooth fingers run over the bumps and discoloured skin of the scar on your arm, and you feel a sensation like one thousand spiders scuttling up your spine.

'Tell me about this. This. Is it what I think it is? Of course, it must be. Werewolf bite. Hmm… but I wager, not how you caught lycanthropy. No this. This. This came from Hircine himself.

He meets your eyes and a disjointed smile dominates his pointed jaw.

'Tell me everything.’


	2. II: The Man who Becomes a Wolf

‘There are things you should know about Hircine,’ says Elien.

You sit in a long, thin room that runs along the side of the house. There are no windows, though if they were Elien would have the shutters closed.

Elien lights some candles, shrunken, fat things wallowing in their own wax. It does little to shift the oppressive atmosphere.

You take a deep breath, and feel like your lungs have inhaled darkness.  
Elien pushes aside a calcinator, and a stained mortar, and plonks his glass of wine down on a table riddled with cuts and burns like pox marks. He perches himself on a stool, and pings the wine glass with a finger, smiles.

‘Black-Briar Reserve,’ he says. ‘A favourite of mine.’

The smell of a delicate blossom and ripe twinge of grape wafts up from the glass of wine, and beyond that the stale chemical smell of the room.

'Hircine does not care who gets infected with lycanthropy.’ Elien sniffs, straightens back his shoulders. 'Personally I would be more choosey and only pick those who showed potential,’ and then he quickly adds, 'Not that I am saying I could do better. Who am I to judge The Prince of the Hunt? But you can be anyone; thief, member of the Dark Brotherhood, Jarl of your own bloody domain.’ He points a finger. ‘You.’

The Altmer waves his hands in the air. ‘Just do what werewolves do. That is all he cares about, that is all that matters to him. Hunt. Just hunt. His followers are free to choose whoever they wish to share their blood with. 'Choose who thou wilt,’ that sort of thing.’

Elien leans forward on the stool, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. The smile he gives you makes your inside twist. You fidget in your seat.

‘However,’ he says. ‘One thing. One tiny, tiny, tiny thing he does care about, and one thing he has absolute say over is who becomes his companion. Who becomes his champion.’

The wind howls down the chimney in the next room.

'You have seen it, have you not? In the pictures and the statues dedicated to him? Usually he is depicted with a wolf. Sometimes two. They are the wolves he deems most loyal. The ones he handpicks to lead The Hunt.’

There’s tightness in your chest. You remember the sound of Hircine’s voice. In the caverns of Chillwind Depths, he’d said that one day you would join him.

Elien leans forwards. ‘They say that Hircine marks the one he deems worthy,’ and his eyes come to rest upon your arm.

You rub the scar on your arm and dig your nails into the puckered flesh.  
In the woods there had been someone else. It could have been Vilkas. It could have been Farkas. However, you suspect it was Hircine.

The other person had spoken to you, told you that the hunt needed a leader. They had stood behind you, their skin warm, their heart a steady thump against your back. They’d stroked your hair, told you to not be afraid.

You feel heat creep into your cheeks and you bow your head and ask Elien what ‘the hunt’ is.

'The Hunt,’ he tuts. ‘The never-ending pursuit that takes place in Hircine’s Hunting Grounds.’

The Altmer swipes a hand through his long, golden hair. 'I cannot believe it.’ He grabs your arm, nearly yanks you out of the chair. 'I have only seen The Mark of Hircine as drawings in books, never - well never “in the flesh”, if you excuse the pun.’ He laughs, and takes another sip of his drink.

You ask him if there is any way to remove it.

‘Remove? Why would you want to remove -‘ Elien sighs. ‘I suppose you have your reasons. Not for me to pry.’

He slips off the stool, reaches for a bottle of red liquid on a shelf over the table.  
‘Allow me to demonstrate.’ He sits back down, grabs a knife from the table and slices it across his wrist. Beads of blood well-up at the cut. He takes a pipette, dips it into in the bottle and draws up some of the liquid.

‘A little concoction of mine. Vampire blood,’ Elien says, studying you. ‘And some other ingredients that I do not feel obliged to tell you.’

He squeezes the pipette over the cut, and a few drops of vampire blood drop on his skin.

The vampire blood is a thick, rich ruby colour, much darker than Elien’s. The two types of blood mix, and then the skin knits itself back together. There is no trace of the cut, just smooth skin.

You hold your breath. If Elien’s vampire blood concoction can do that, could it remove scars, and if so Hircine’s mark?

‘Patience,’ Elien says. ‘Watch.’

He pushes his hand in front of your face. ‘See this?’ There’s a light yellow scar at the stub of his thumb. ‘Did it last week. Burnt myself on the edge of a heated tool. Idiotic thing to do, but hindsight is not a luxury I have.’

Once again he dispenses the blood over the scar. Like the cut, the scar heals to leave no mark.

‘Vampire blood can heal most wounds, cuts abrasions. Before I studied Manbeast, I was interested in ‘Porphyric Haemophilia’. That Is ‘vampirism’, to the likes of you. The blood of the vampire is an excellent healing agent, applied to my own recipe, I have altered the chemical compound so that it is able to not only heal fresh cuts but also old wounds. But!’ He jumps up, the stool topples.

You bolt upright in your chair.

‘Here is where we put it to the real test.’

Elien holds your arm. His fingers are clammy.

‘If you are telling the truth,’ he smiles. ‘Let us pray to Hircine that you are, then even after applying this to your skin, the scar will remain.’

You hope for the opposite. Even if it means invoking Elien’s wraith.  
This time he sucks up a large amount of blood into the pipette and drops it over the mark. 

The blood is cold. It sits on your skin like the droplets of dark red Black-Briar Reserve from Elien’s glass.

Elien leans forward. He is inches away from your skin. You feel his breath upon your arm, and your breathing synchronises with his.

The skin beneath the blood warms. It feels like melted wax on your skin. Then the vampire blood dissolves into the scar.

‘Oh I knew it!’

A weighted knot forms in your stomach, and your stomach plunges to the floor.  
The Mark of Hircine remains.

‘Amazing. You are going to have to let me analyse it. Take skin samples.’  
Again, you ask Elien if he’s sure there’s no way of getting rid of it. You notice the notes of pleading in your voice.

You’d worship someone – anyone - any Daedric Prince who might create a magic cloth that would blot out this mark and untie you from your bond to Hircine.

Your shoulders sag with the imaginary weight of the chains that tie you to the Prince of the Hunt.

You’re at his mercy.

You slap your hand over the mark as if to stop Hircine’s from seeing.  
‘My friend.’ Elien’s voice is gentle. ‘You have just witnessed the miracle that is vampire blood. If that cannot get rid of the mark, nothing will.’

He rubs his chin. 'No, there is no removing it. Not that I know of. It has been seared into your soul. We could remove all layers of skin, and I wager the mark would be found on the bone.’

He takes a swig of the wine, smacks his lips and grins like he’s just delivered the best news possible. 'No, I am sorry, friend. You belong to Hircine. You are his.’

The floorboards outside the room creak, a young woman sticks her head around the door, but the Altmer ignores her.

‘Haven’t you heard the door?’ she says.

The woman’s eyes look bloodshot. The parts that should be white are red, and her skin looks like animal hide stretched too thin on a rack. Veins, like thin threads of blue cotton, sporadically dot her face.

‘No,’ Elien snaps. ‘Can you not see I am busy?’

‘There’s a young one wanting to see your guest.’ The woman looks at you. ‘The Harbinger, I presume?’

You nod, and the woman beckons a little girl through.

‘Go away, go away,’ mutters Elien. ‘Can you not see, we are busy?’

‘No,’ the woman says. ‘Whatever it is I’m sure it can wait. On the other hand what this girl needs to tell the Harbinger is - what she says - of great importance.’

* * *

The girl leads you through the streets of Windhelm, bare feet padding on stone, snow and ice. Her dress is frayed at the hem, and the patches on it don’t match the original material.

There’s a gust of wind that blows up snow.

You cover your face with your hands and she pulls her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders.

‘This way!’ she calls through the wind, and you follow her into the large walled in courtyard that surrounds the entrance to The Palace of the Kings.

Like the patches on girls clothing, the Palace of the Kings doesn’t match the architecture of the other buildings it dwarfs.

The girl passes unhindered by the guards at the Palace’s large wooden doors. She opens one of the doors ajar, and squeezes through the gap.

The Palace of the Kings is the last surveying buildings of Ysgramor’s time. It’s also home to the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak.

Ulfric is the leader of the Stromcloak Rebellion, and the Palace of the Kings is their centre of command.

Though you are tempted to look at the splendour of the palace, you look down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with the servants that brush past and guards that guard the doors.

You are Harbinger to the Companions and Dovahkiin, you’d be a great asset Ulfric’s rebellion, but the last thing you want is to choose sides.

Was this child sent to bring you to Ulfric? You panic at such a thought, but then calm yourself, because surely Ulfric would summon you with a soldier, not some urchin off the street.

The girl doesn’t enter the reception hall. Instead she veers right, goes down a corridor and into a room with weapon racks, and rickety wooden bed lined in rows with scratchy looked linen, and tables piled with armour.

‘Good job, Sophie.’ A solider sitting behind one of the table stands, holds out a hand to you.

‘Harbinger,’ he says. ‘Welcome to Windhelm Barracks. I wish your coming here was for different circumstances.’

The guard passes a basket of flowers to Sophie, and pats her on the head.  
‘I’ll have the money for the flowers tomorrow. Could you also get some springs of lavender? I’ll pay extra. My wife loves lavender.’

The guard smiles. The scar next to his lips stretches, exposing the thread which keeps the skin together.

‘Okay,’ Sophie says. She bobs a curtsy to the guard and to you, rubs one of her shoeless, red feet against the back of a bare leg and leaves.  
The guard turns his attention to you.

‘Got someone down in the dungeon who I am told you can vouch for. Not that it will make much difference. Found him unconscious at the scene of the crime, covered in blood. Not much either of you can say to change the outcome of this situation.’

You ask why this guilty man has asked to see you.

The guard leads you out of the barrack’s living quarters and down a flight of stone steps.

‘Says he knows you,’ the soldier says. ‘Well, you’ll see for yourself. Don’t take much pleasure in this, what with him being …’ The soldier hesitates. ‘My father always taught me to respect you lot. Damn shame, that’s all.’

You are Harbinger to the Companions, and whilst the role brings a lot of respect your way, it doesn’t give you the power to rewrite laws or gain someone their freedom. Not even in Whiterun could you do that. So you wonder what this person hopes to gain by speaking to you.

Four cells line the dungeon. A female guard stands at the farthest one.  
She bangs her sword against the bars. ‘Step away,’ she says.

As you approach she turns to you, torchlight reflected in her armour. ‘Careful, Harbinger.’ She repeats what the other soldier told you, that the man was found unconscious next to his victim. ‘Covered in the innards and remains of the poor sod,’ she adds.

You step towards the prison bars.

'Not too close,’ says the guard.

The figure behind the bars steps out of shadow.

Beneath the one swollen eye, the split lip and the misplaced nose that dribbles blood, you recognise the man who stares back at you with intense grey eyes.  
Vilkas.

'Harbinger,’ he says, and lurches forwards.

'Back!’ the guard snaps.

Vilkas shuffles backwards. He clutches a hand to his chest. 'Thank you for coming to see me. I - ’

His eyes dart to the guard and then back towards you. 'Whatever they are saying, it isn’t true.’

You ask what they have been saying.

And he looks at you and you see the concern in his eyes.

'Harbinger. They are saying I am a wolf.’


	3. Concerning the Events of the Night before.

After you ask the old soldier if it’s possible to speak to Vilkas alone, he smiles a smile that barely creases his face and leaves, taking the guard with him.

You hold your breath, wait to hear the clunk of the door shutting, and then turn to Vilkas.

It doesn’t matter, you think. It doesn’t matter if he has turned into a wolf. You wouldn’t blame him. It doesn’t matter. Only now it appears someone has seen him, and, it _doesn’t matter_ , but now, _you_ have to fix _this_.

Your mouth is dry.

As Vilkas approaches the bars you ask him if he has turned into a wolf.

His shoulders sag. ‘No,’ he says. 'I could not. I would not. It is what I told you last night. Not since I promised the old man.’ He clutches the bars. 'Harbinger, you have to believe me.’

Thoughts of last night pulsate through your mind. His lips upon yours, the pressure of him crushing you to his chest. The taste of blood.

You resist touching his hands. But you feel regret and guilt and it draws you towards Vilkas like a moth searching for light.

Only the bars stop your bodies from meeting.

You wipe some of the blood from his face.

He tilts his head into your hand, closes his eyes.

A bitter misunderstanding has brought you both to this point.

* * *

This is what happened the night before.

When Candlehearth Hall started to feel like a prison, when you could no longer appease the wolf with apples and strips of dry meat, you fled.

The wolf inside you sang. Just a moment with the wind in your face, and the snow in your hair, and the stars above, and the blood on your lips.

 

A pink tinge coloured the sky, giving the light a rose hued glow.

Frozen snow covered the bridge at the main entrance into Windhelm. Beneath the bridge, the White River roared, hauling chunks of ice out into the Sea of Ghosts.

Across the bridge, you scrabbled, like a Skooma addict looking for their next fix.

The guards laughed when, halfway across you slipped. Your face slapped against the frigid stone, and their pearls of laughter filled the air.

That laughter pursued you to the end of the bridge.

'Drunken fool!’ they shouted.

The wind blew snowflakes across your face, but they did little to temper the smart of your skin. Or soothe your bruised pride.

The bridge ended, and the path branched off in two directions. The left followed the river as it passed a few farmsteads cradled by the Velothi Mountains.

The nearest farm peeked out from behind some trees. A lantern on the fence post lit up the steps leading to the front door.

You saw the outline of a woman.

The woman shooed her goat with a broom, back into the field at the side of the farm house.

Your heart quickened. A grumble came from your stomach.

You licked your lips.

Realisation struck. It struck so hard that you staggered, and then fled down the path on the right.

But it didn’t matter how far you ran, you couldn’t escape those thoughts. Thoughts of the woman with the goat, and what their flesh would taste like.

A smaller bridge lay ahead.

A bridge and well maintained road increased the chances of running into another person. Even in the evening. You turned away from it, choosing to follow the dirt path running parallel to one of the arteries of the river. 

You smelled the hare before you saw it.

It zigzagged in front of you. Scrambled up the slope of land on the left, and disappeared over the top.

It was then that you realised just how tight you screwed your fists together. How hard you clenched your jaw.

The river rushed past. Vicious and ragged.

When you dipped your hand into the water, it tore at your skin. Left behind a cold burn that remained even when it was no longer submerged.

You massaged your skin. The cold was what you needed. Wake you up from the daze, and drown the wolf inside. So you cupped your hands together and splashed water in your face.

The water hit you like a wall of ice, dragged loud gasps past your trembling lips, and made your vision blur.

A wolf howled. Its call echoed around the cloud swaddled mountains.

Your skin prickled.

At the base of the mountains, sat Windhelm. In the dark, the fire pits made its ice covered walls shimmer like blue glass. The pink sky had faded, and the aura rippled purple and green above the city.

The wolf howled again.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to throw back your head and respond. Scream.

You hadn’t managed to drown the wolf after all.

‘Harbinger?’

You whirled round. Curled your lips and snarled.

‘Harbinger, it’s me. It’s Vilkas.’

Your nostrils flared, you gritted your teeth.

Vilkas’s stood staring at you, fists clenched.

Against the thunder of your heart, all you could think was how? How? With all the roads you had taken to lead Hircine’s gaze away from Jorrvaskr, how had Vilkas found you?

You forced a laugh. It sounded brittle in the frigid air.

Strands of hair stuck to your face. A trickle of drool edged down your chin.

Vilkas stepped closer, hands raised and palms turned outwards. ‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘Easy, easy.’

Though you didn’t expect them to, his words soothed you.

‘You can resist,’ he said.

Your knees slammed into the ground and you dug your fingers into the dirt.

‘Easy.’ Vilkas knelt beside you, his hand stroked your back. ‘Easy.’

His voice drew you away from the wolf like a beacon in the dark.

You lifted your head, opened your mouth. But a groan replaced the words you wanted to speak.

‘Harbinger,’ Vilkas cupped your chin, tilted your head to one side. ‘Your eyes.’

Your pupils had constricted and your eyes were yellow. You didn’t need a mirror to know this.

Vilkas stroked your back. Removed wet strands of hair from your face and wiped saliva off your chin with his thumb. And, as he did so, the creature that had threatened to burst out of your skin, retreated.

 

Vilkas wrapped an arm around you and shouldered your weight. You both retraced your steps; up the dirt path, over the bridge. Back to the city.

The guards at the gate propped themselves against the wall. ‘In the future,’ one said, ‘better make sure your friend can stomach their drink.’

Vilkas growled. ‘And you’d better watch your mouth.’ His charcoal rimmed eyes looked fierce and resolute, and the hand that didn’t support you rested on the hilt of his sword. 

They didn’t reprimand him.

 

Back in the rented room, Vilkas tore the skin off the bed, wrapped it around your shoulders. 

He sat you on the edge of the straw mattress, then bent down, gazed up into your face.

Embarrassment rippled in the pit of your stomach. You avoided his gaze. You wanted to apologise, but words became lodged in your throat. 

Each day, the wolf fed on another piece of you.

The Companions deserved better.

‘It is alright,’ Vilkas said. He rested a gauntleted hand on your knee. ‘When Kodlak first said that we should resist the wolf, I found it hard. There were times I thought I would never make it. Times where I wanted to rip off my own skin, and let the wolf devour me. But…’

He cupped your chin, rubbed his thumb backwards and forwards across your skin.

For the first time that evening, your heartbeat slowed.

Your eyes locked onto his.

‘I have not changed. Not since I promised the old man. Not once. If I can do it, so can you.’ 

He moved away, unstrapped his chest plate, and lay it on the floor. Next he stripped his arms of the grimy wraps and the gauntlets, and dropped them next to his armour. From a leather bag, he pulled out a shirt.

A cartographer couldn’t have made a better looking map than Vilkas’ skin. Scars criss-crossed his upper body and torso like roads and pathways. Welts made small hills, and on his chest, dark, coarse hair could have passed for forest.

The Amulet of Mara hung round his neck.

He dropped the shirt over his head, and left the neck open.

‘Kodlak had faith in you. _I_ have faith in you,’ he said.

It wasn’t what he thought. It wasn’t the wolf you couldn’t resist. It was Hircine.

 

Vilkas left the room. When he returned he carried two bowls and a loaf of bread tucked under each arm.

‘I know it’s not the same as hunting your own food,’ he said. ‘But better than nothing.’

He put the bread on the bed and the bowls on the floor, then took a jug off the chest of draws and poured water into a metal cup.

He pressed the cup into your hands.

‘What brings you to this place? This is the home of Ulfric and his war.’ He snatched a loaf off the bed and ripped a lump off with his teeth. ‘Thought you would want to stay clear. Kodlak would have wanted to stay clear. “Let them wage their war amongst themselves,” he’d say. “Our concern is Jorrvaskr. And Jorrvaskr will remain Jorrvaskr regardless of who rules Skyrim.”’ Vilkas smiled.

You put the mug on the floor and rested your head in your hands.

You weren’t Kodlak.

‘What is wrong? You have not been yourself, not since Farkas found you in the woods.’

He sat next to you. Breadcrumbs scattered onto the floor.

He dunked a lump of bread into a bowl, ate it, then dunked another and held it out to you.

‘It is alright,’ he said.

You opened your mouth.

The bread was tough. The weak broth softened the edges, but when you swallowed you felt every inch of its decent.

‘Tell me what happened in the woods,’ Vilkas said. ‘Tell me everything.’

So you told him. Everything except for the parts about Hircine. The less Vilkas knew about Hircine, the safer he would be.

When you reached the part about the other wolf in the woods, Vilkas fixed you with a keen gaze. He opened and closed his hands, flexed his fingers. ‘There was another wolf?’ he said, his eyebrows knitted.

He cleared his throat. ‘When you came back to Jorrvaskr you were speaking Daedric.’

You stood, hands clenched by your side.

The truth lurched towards the opening of your mouth, rested on the tip of your tongue. You reined it back in.

‘Tell me. Let me help you. Before you came to us, before you were part of The Companions, were you a Daedra worshiper?’

You wrapped your arms around yourself, squeezed the loaf to your chest.

A loud thump came from the tavern above, followed by a roar of laughter.

It startled you, caused Vilkas to curse under his breath.

You snapped your head from left to right as if you expected a dragon to come charging through the wall.

‘Look at you,’ Vilkas stood and grabbed you with a fierceness that made the loaf slip from your hands.

The bread hit the floor.

‘You are like a startled rabbit.’

His warm breath tickled the side of your face. His chest rose and fell, his rugged breathing only just audible over the thrashing of your heart. 

When he kissed you, you savoured the warmth of his arms, the way his cracked lips clashed against your own. How he gave your arms a slight squeeze each time your tongues met, and how the Amulet of Mara dug into your chest.

Stale sweat and mead were the smells you associated with Vilkas. Yet the smells shifted and became the scents of wet earth and of blood.

The change came sudden, and you saw it out of the corner of your eye. How it was that the person you kissed was no longer Vilkas. How his wide and hooked nose became long and bulbous. How his battle grizzled skin became blemished and ruddy.

The person who kissed you looked like Engar.

In the seconds that it took you to take all this in, your mouth filled with a copper tasting liquid. It expelled from Engar’s mouth and into your own.

You wrenched away, and fell backwards, coughing blood onto yourself and the floor. 

Engar stared down at you. His skin pale. His clothes ragged. And the cut - carved into his throat by the Falmer’s knife - grinned like a second smile.

Then Engar was no longer Engar, but Hircine.

Then Engar again.

Then Hircine.

Engar.

Hircine.

Engar.

Engar.

Hircine.

Hircine bent down towards you, hand extended.

You closed your eyes.

'Harbinger?’

The voice didn’t belong to Hircine. It belonged to Vilkas.

You opened your eyes, looked past Vilkas, looked at every corner of the room. But Vilkas and you were the only ones present.

‘Harbinger…’ Vilkas backed away from you. ‘If you had not wanted…’ His mouth opened and closed. He raised his chin. ‘It is alright. I understand now. You just needed to say.’

He reached for the bow he’d propped against the wall, and shouldered it. ‘Farkas,’ he mumbled. ‘I know now. The other wolf. It was Farkas.’

And you let him think that because it was better than the truth.

Vilkas departed. Leaving you with a lump in your throat and a hole in your chest, and with the fear and uncertainty of what you had seen.

You could taste him on your lips. And your own smells mingled with his. And you smelt of stale sweat and mead. And of wet earth. And of blood.

* * *

Vilkas retreats from the prison bars, sits on the floor, head on hands.

‘It is silly,’ he says. ‘I left to go hunt you a rabbit.’ He lifts his head and gives you a weak smile. ‘I thought it would impress you. Cheer you up. Some proper food, better than the crap they serve at that inn.’

This is your fault. Had you been honest. Told Vilkas the full story. Had you not let him think you pushed him away because of Farkas, he would have stayed with you. And this day would have been a different story.

‘I left the city and headed towards the farms, after that… I do not know.’ He slams his fist into the stone floor. ‘I do not remember, and I am not sure why.’

You tell him you’ll discover the truth, because inside you think that’s the least you can do.

‘Not like this,’ Vilkas says. ‘Harbinger, if I am to die let it be in battle, not like this. Not by some headman’s axe. Not by some lie.’

The lump at his throat bobs. ‘I wish to see Sovngarde.’

 

You collect Vilkas’ possessions from the old soldier. There’s his bow and quiver of arrows, a small leather coin sack and a bag of potions. Lastly, the soldier drops the Amulet of Mara into your hands.

‘I’m not quite sure I believe it myself,’ he says. ‘I’ve been around men who murder for fun. They have this look in their eyes, like you’re starring into the void. I don’t see that in him, too noble.’

You ask what you can do.

‘As far as the city guard is concerned, well they’ve made up their mind. Found at the scene of the crime, and that Altmer has confirmed a werewolf savaged the body.’

The soldier scratches his skin just below the stitching beneath his lip. ‘There’s no one left to investigate. The guards stretched thin, and anyone left, Jarl Ulfric has claimed for his army.’

You ask if you could see the body.

‘You want to investigate this yourself?’ He snatches a sword from a rack and runs his hands along the blade. ‘I suppose you could. But you’d have to get permission. And for that you’d need to speak to the Jarl.’

Your stomach sinks. As Dovahkiin and Harbinger to The Companions, last thing you need is to catch the attention of Ulfric Stormcloak.

 

Upon leaving the barracks, you turn to the right.

The receiving hall lies ahead.

Vilkas’ fate lies ahead.

You run your thumb over the Amulet of Mara, and wonder how easy it is to get an audience with the Jarl.


	4. IV: The Thief that Wasn't

IV.

The Thief that Wasn't

The Priestess of Arkay steps backwards.

'What are you doing here?' she snaps. 'The Hall of the Dead is closed to the public at night.'

Beneath the hood of her cowl, you see her eyes widen. 'Defiler!' She jabs a finger at you. 'Necromancer! Come here to steal the body of the deceased!' And she turns and flees.

Adrenaline surges through your body. You think about leaving, but you've come all this way.

Deciding it shouldn't be for nothing, you pocket the lock pick.

There's a stone pedestal to the left, with some sort of relic on top.

The relic looks like a stone ball, boarded by a star. Fat candles squat beneath the pedestal and on the floor around it. They flicker in the dark and cast tall shadows on the walls.

Dotted about are pots and vases, urns, an unlit fire pit, and a wooden table with a shroud spread across it.

The shroud is white, pristine. The bumps that rise beneath it, give a clue to what it obscures.

Your pulse increases, you run your tongue across your dry lips.

You grab a corner of the shroud, go to pull -

'This way! This way!'

The Priestess of Arkay's voice echoes. Follow by hurried footsteps and the clink of armour.

You step away from the table. Your brain runs through the layout of the hall. It's warren-like passageways, how they all converge on the main entrance. You could loop back around. But how many guards are there, and will you come across one on the way out?

Seconds tick by.

The footsteps get closer.

You're rooted to the spot. Your muscles tighten.

Stay?

Go?

Stay.

It's worse to run. You look guilty if you run.

You tell yourself, you _are_ guilty. You've broken into property that isn't yours. You're trespassing.

The Priestess of Arkay appears first, skirts billowing out behind her. Two guards follow.

'See,' she says, once again jabbing a finger at you. 'Isn't it like I told you? Necromancer! Come to steal the body!'

* * *

Vilkas can't sleep.

He lies on his back against the cold, stone floor, gaze fixed on the narrow window just outside his cell.

His been staring at the window since nightfall. Watched as the sunlight evaporated and the sky blushed pink. Tonight there is no aura for him to watch. There isn't even a cloud in the sky.

A million stars look down on him, witnesses to his incarceration.

Cloudless nights like these are colder than the others, and Vilkas thinks about home. How on nights like this everyone gathers inside the belly of Jorrvaskr. How they press tight around the fires. Elbow to elbow, mug to mug. They swap stories, fill their stomachs, and fall asleep surrounded by friends and furs. Warm.

Vilkas shudders.

There's a blanket in the cell, but its thin and dirty, not fit for even a dog to lie on.

Time is absent here. Everything feels paused, and Vilkas, although he would not admit it, feels lonely.

The guard that usually stands outside his cell has gone away to rest. There's no one to replace her because Ulfric has taken the person who would for his army.

Vilkas thinks, it's hard to imagine life continuing, whilst trapped in here.

The door into the prison crashes open.

'Just saying that we do not know the full story, that is all.'

Vilkas sits up.

The cells all face a blank wall, and the door is out of view.

'What's that?' another guard says.

Vilkas recognises the voice that responds.

He gets to his feet, approaches the bars, rests his hands on them.

'Look here,' one guards says.

They stomp down the steps.

'I don't care if you are the Harbinger of Death, you broke the law. We can't prove whether you are a necromancer or not, but trespassing, forced entry. Those are all against the law. For that, you get to spend time in a cell.'

A dishevelled and shackled Harbinger appears. Escorted by two guards. They stop at the cell next door.

The Harbinger lifts their head, and their eyes meet Vilkas'.

 

 

The guards leave. The prison door clunks shut.

Vilkas sits, leans against the wall that boarders the Harbinger's cell. He brings his knees up to his chest, tilts his head back so that he stares at the ceiling.

He draws a long breath through gritted teeth. 'So,' he says. 'What happened? Necromancer, trespassing, forced entry? Shor have mercy. Tell me everything.' 

* * *

As it happened, getting an audience with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, wasn't hard. Desperate men - Jarl or not - will see anyone when they need more people for their army. And Ulfric, though he tries not to show it, _is_ a desperate man.

Ulfric sat on an ornate, wooden chair, on a dais in the receiving hall of the Palace of Kings. He slouched, propping his head up with one of his hands.

There was a cue of three people, leading up to the dais.

You hesitated, went to join the line, but -

As Harbinger, you couldn't risk becoming tangled in the politics of others.

The old soldier said you needed permission to investigate. But if you were careful, no one needed to know.

* * *

'So you decided to walk away?' Vilkas says. 'Concerned Ulfric will pull the Companions and everyone back at Jorrvaskr into his war. I understand that. A wise decision.'

Vilkas rubs the stubble on his face. He hasn't had a shave for a few days, and the hairs are getting longer. Soon he'll have a beard. He wonders if they will let him shave before they lop off his head.

He reassures himself that the Harbinger walking away was the right decision. Tells himself, that's what Kodlak would have done. But he can't help but dwell on what could have been. Had the Harbinger spoke to Ulfric, would they now be riding home?

Vilkas grits his teeth, flicks a piece of straw across the floor.

'You decided to investigate for yourself?' he says. 'Go see the body, see if you could find any clues which would tell you what really happened.'

Despite the circumstances, the corner of his mouth twitches. Does the Harbinger care so much?

'But I am guessing,' Vilkas says. 'They wouldn't let you examine the body? So you had to find a way of seeing it for yourself.'

* * *

The Priestess of Arkay barred the entrance of the Hall of the Dead with her arms. 'Absolutely not,' she said. 'If you are here to pay respects to the dead, then fine. But you aren't coming here to examine a body. Not a body that has already been examined. Now is the time to put that body to rest.'

You tried to argue, to plead your case, but the Priestess of Arkay folded her arms across her chest.

'You have no authority here. Go away.'

 

 

Night fell. Back in the rented room at Candlehearth Hall, you waited for the inn to grow silent.

When you were certain that everyone was either in bed or had left, you made your move.

You pulled on your leather gauntlets, and your darkest clothes. Pulled a hood up over your head, and crept out of the inn.

The Temple of Talos sits just behind Candlehearth Hall. Squashed between the front of the Palace of Kings, and a road that leads down towards the cemetery.

Like the rest of Windhelm, it is a gaudy building made from large blocks of stone. It towers over other buildings. Bird-like statues sit on ice encrusted ledges, accompanied by icicles the size of swords.

In the past, many people came to this temple. Now it is more a monument to Ulfric's defiance, than a place of worship.

You hurried across the street, followed the road to the cemetery.

The Hall of the Dead and shrine to Arkay, are in the temple's basement. There are no windows. The only way in, is through the front door, found in the city's cemetery.

You tucked yourself close against a wall, held your breath and waited. When you were certain there was no one near, you knelt in front of the door and picked the lock.

Twist here, clunk there, a push at just the right time.

The door creaked open.

Your heart pounded, sounded so loud in your head you wondered if others could hear it. You rested a hand upon your chest, drew in a long, slow breath.

* * *

'And you found the body. But let me guess, the Priestess discovered you before you could take a proper look.'

The Harbinger doesn't reply.

'She thought you wanted to steal the body, that you were a necromancer.' At any other time he would have mocked the Harbinger's folly. Laughed. He had neither the strength nor the conviction to do either. Instead he stared at the wall, and felt nothing but the heavy weight of dread.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'About this.'

He made the apology sound like it was for this situation. And it was. But it was also for everything else. Including the kiss.

***

The night passes in a whir of fitful sleep. When you wake, there's a tight knot in your shoulders, a crick in your neck.

The prison bars come into focus.

You remember what happened.

Thoughts torment your mind.

If you'd seen Ulfric. Perhaps then Vilkas would be free.

If you'd stopped Vilkas from leaving.

If you'd told him the truth.

If.

If.

If.

You roll over, fold your arms around yourself.

Straw pokes you in the face.

In the cell next to you, Vilkas' sighs.

There's what feels like an empty hole in your stomach.

On your lips you can feel the ghostly trace of the kiss.

When sleep comes again, it drags you into a dark and dreamless place.

* * *

It's the sound of shouting, that wakes you.

Your eyes shoot open when the prison door to Vilkas' cell, crashes open against your bars.

You sit bolt up.

Vilkas is on the floor, a guard pinning him down, whilst another pulls on the chains that shackle his wrists.

'There has been no trial,' Vilkas snaps, he digs his fingers into the stone floor. Then his eyes meet yours and they widen.

'Harbinger, they are doing it today. Now. They say I am to be put to death!'

You shoot up.

The prison bars block your way.

A pressure builds in your chest, as if your heart is about to explode. You grip the bars until your knuckles of white.

You demand to see the Jarl.

'Jarl Ulfric is busy with the war,' the standing guard says. 'He has left this matter in our hands.'

You ask whether the Jarl knows an innocent man is about to die, at which point both guards laugh.

'Innocent? He's as guilty as a Kahjiit found with a purse of coins in his hands.'

Together, they manage to lever Vilkas off the floor. When he is standing, the guard who'd been on top of him pulls back his fist, punches Vilkas in the stomach.

Vilkas collapses to his knees.

There's a pounding in your head. You rattle the bars, and yell at the guards.

In all the commotion, the dragon slips into your mind, coils around your brain.

You feel your breathing still.

There are footsteps. Someone is coming down the stairs. But you try not to pay attention to them. Instead you fix the word for Unrelenting Force inside your mind.

_Fus._

When you speak the word the world goes still. Everything slows.

Your voice manifests in the air. It soars towards the two guards and Vilkas, knocks them backwards and into the prison wall.

The guards slide down the wall, collapse onto the floor. Their eyes are wide, their mouths open.

A helmet lies on the floor. It slowly rotates.

You press your face against the bars. If anything happens to Vilkas, you shout, you will call forth fire. You will burn this place and everyone in it.

The footsteps have stopped, and the old soldier you met yesterday stands by the first cell.

'Thu'um. You speak dragon?' the old soldier says, scratching his chin. 'What they say about you is true...' He looks at the soldiers on the floor, at Vilkas, then at you.

'What is going on in here?'

You tell him, in one long sentence without stopping to breathe.

Again, you demand to see the Jarl.

The old soldier nods. 'Alright,' he says. 'I'll take you to see Ulfric.'

* * *

Ulfric only has seconds to spare, before he must return to the war room.

In his large, rough hands he holds the life of many, and his decisions can save or condemn a man. But over this, he has little control, because he is aware that some people already doubt him. Making a decision they disagree with will only make these people become more vocal.

He heard the story yesterday.  Galmar told him. And Ulfric thinks, _a werewolf in Windhelm._ But he has no time to ponder whether the right man has been caught.

Ulfric strokes his short beard.

Galmar paces back and forth in front of the stone dais like a caged bear.

'We're wasting time,' he says, voice as deep and craggy as the Vethlothi mountains.

Galmar stops, turns and faces the approaching newcomers. 'This,' he says, pointing. 'This is the Harbinger? Someone who goes skulking around in the night, breaking into temples and trying to steal bodies?'

The Harbinger snaps. Doesn't seem to care or has completely forgotten the respect one pays in front of a jarl. And Ulfric, rubs his face, hides the curl of a smile behind his hand. Thinks, it's nice to see passion and spirit in someone, when this world has beaten it out of so many.

The Harbinger says that they weren't stealing the body, and Ulfric leans forward. 'Then,' he says. 'What were you doing?'

Galmar places his hands on his hips. A broad shouldered, grizzled Nord who towers over the Harbinger.

It's early, and no candles have been lit. The deep blue shadows on Galmar's face, makes it look like someone has hollowed out his eyes.

Ulfric listens to the Harbinger's story. As he does, he watches the dust particles trapped in the first pale shafts of the frigid morning light.

* * *

The gaze from Jarl's housecarl bears down on you like a weight. Your heart clatters.

Whilst telling Vilkas' story, you study Ulfric's face. You see the expense of war in the wrinkles around his eyes. The deep lines concern has carved into his forehead. And that is all.

The butterflies in your stomach intensify their flapping. And with every beat you hear a whisper that tells you, _Vilkas will die_.

'I'm uncertain of your intentions,' the housecarl says. 'Or what you expect Ulfric to do. Time wasted here is to the advantage of the Empire. Ulfric, come.'

The Jarl of Windhelm gets up from the throne. 

Your heart stutters, and you think, _wait, wait, wait._ But can't quite get the words out of your mouth.

'I fear this war will claim many innocent lives,' Ulfric says, steps down off the dais.

Is that what he wants? Innocent blood on his hands?

You remember the first time you met Ulfric Stormcloak. In a cart, on a rough track, heading towards Helgen. Towards execution.

Hasn't he ever been wrongly accused?

 The Jarl turns to face you, head tilted a fraction to the side. The right side of his mouth raises.

'Ah,' he says. 'You have me there.'

'Ulfric -'

Ulfric raises a hand. 'One moment Galmar.'

The Jarl strides towards you. 'I remember you now,' he says. 'On the way to Helgen, when we were both about to meet the chopping block. And now you are Harbinger.' He raises his thick eyebrows. 'You have done well for yourself.'

He asks you if you're certain Vilkas is innocent. You tell him that you wouldn't fight for someone you didn't trust.

Ulfric nods, rubs his chin. 'I understand. I feel the same about my men. About Skyrim. Very well. I can spare you no men. You understand this? If you are to investigate, you must do so on your own. You have my permission, to look at the body, question who you must.'

The weight in your stomach lifts.

'And you have three days to do so. That is all I can give you. Some of the people of Windhelm already doubt whether I am fit to rule, do not give them reason to doubt further. When three days have passed, if you have no proof, I will not be able to stop the inevitable from happening.'

Three days. It's not much, but it might be enough.

You turn, go to leave.

'One moment,' Ulfric says, and he folds his arms across his broad chest.  'My men tell me you swept their feet from beneath them, and threw them against the ground. All without moving.' His eyes narrow. 'Magic like that is rare. Not like the telekinetic blast from a mage, but instead a raw and primal power. You know of the Thu'um.'     

You finger the hem of your shirt, your chest tightens. You're not sure what to say, accept think, what's the relevance?

'Perhaps when all this is done you will come speak with me? You'll recall the compassion I have shown you, and repay it in kind?'

* * *

The Priestess of Arkay stands next to the table the body is on. She taps her fingers against her thighs, eyes the guard that escorted you in. 

She steps forwards, folds back the white veil.

'His name was Torbar, so Elda tells me,' she says. 'He was staying at Candlehearth Hall.' The Priestess snaps her hands together. 'That is all I know. I've been trying to see if he has any family around here, but that doesn't seem to be the case.'

You thank the Priestess for the little bit of information she's given you, and she nods, then leaves. The guard goes with her.

Not far from where you stand, a woman kneels at the Shrine of Arkay. You try to ignore the sound of her sobs as you look down on the lifeless body of Torbar.

His skin is pale, his eyes closed, and his corn coloured hair is lank and scrapped back off his bloated face.

Crude stitches boarder puckered flesh. The Priestess has done her best to pack the wounds and seal them shut, mop up the blood.

You scratch your face with the back of your hand.

The stitches highlight a large gash in the abdomen, and you imagine the skin flapping loose.

There are no teeth marks.

A voice comes from over your shoulder. 'Stabbed.'

It is then that you are aware how silent the Hall of the Dead is. Not even a crackle of flame from the fire pits.

The woman has stopped sobbing, and when you turn she is inches away from your face.

'See the marks on his arms? He raised them in hopes of protecting himself.' She laughs. 'No chance there.'

She walks towards the body. Leans over it so her tangled and knotted brown hair trails against Torbar's skin.

'Lucky Torbar,' she says, and strokes the side of his face. 'It's okay now. He's gone and joined the hunt.'

You can feel heat in your face and your pulse quickens. You ask, what she means about the hunt.

She approaches you, her vivid eyes narrowed. 'Oh. You know.'

You breathe out, and your breathe is visible in the air.

'He was one of us,' she says.

And you whisper the word.

_Wolf._

The woman smiles. 'Hircine,' she says. 'Torbar has joined Hircine, and Hircine has sent me to help you.'


	5. V: The Smell of Alcohol

V.

  
The Smell of Alcohol

  
A man came to Windhelm and died in the snow. Not just any man. A man who carried Hircine’s blood. A wolf. Like _you_.

As your stomach tightens into a ball a cloak of ice wraps around your body. The cauldrons flames are bright but you feel no heat from them. The woman meets your gaze. She’s a hand taller than you, broad shouldered with ice blond hair scrunched into a bun. It’s not just this Nord woman who returns your look. You know beyond her lapis eyes Hircine stares back. 

You swallow back your fear. Why would Hircine send help? No point asking, you’d get no straight answer. But you’re not foolish, you can take a stab at a guess. Hircine’s sent help so you’ll owe him, you’ll be forever indebted to the Prince of the Hunt. 

For a moment the woman disappears. When she returns, she is carrying a bundle of clothes which she holds out to you and says, ‘these were Torbar’s. Smell them.’ 

Scabs of dry dirt cling to the clothes like barnacles on a boat. Ripped material smattered with blood coloured brown by time. Your nose wrinkles, you can already imagine the stink of body odour and death.

‘There is good reason,’ the woman says, eyebrow arched and corner of her mouth twitching. 

Sweat. Blood. The scent you get when your clothes have been out in the rain and there has been little time to dry them. All the scents you expected from the garments of a man who’d been on the road for a while. 

‘You see mud so you smell the earth. You see blood so you smell death. Don’t see. Smell. Smell past the obvious. Call on the wolf.’   
The wolf lurks inside your body, coiled around your bones. If you call on it will you be able to pull it back? Your bottom lip is cracked, you wet it with your tongue. Hunger. You don't feed the wolf so it wants to feast on you.

‘For Vilkas,’ the woman says. 

Vilkas. Vilkas ragged and bruised inside the cell. Vilkas who everyone believes is a murderer. Vilkas who will be executed if you do nothing.   
You’re breathless. Your heart hammers. A bit of the wolf that’s all you need. The wolf yawns, uncurls itself from your heart, creeps as you encourage it close like an old woman beckoning her cat. 

Blood. Earth. All these expected smells rise up to greet you. Search beyond the obvious, just like the woman told you.   
There's a scent knitted together with all the others; floral and familiar. Alcoholic. You untangle it from the aroma of death. Wine.

‘You've found it,’ the woman smiles. ‘It might mean nothing. It might mean everything.’

* * *

The perfumed aroma from the alcohol Torbar consumed lingers in your nostrils, but Nine be damned if you know which spirit it belongs to. What does it matter anyway? All it shows is Torbar had a drink before he died, most likely at Candlehearth Hall. Still, you have nothing else to go on and if you could just retrace his steps, it might lead you to some clues. 

Elda peers at you through eye sockets weighted by lack of sleep. ‘Make it quick.’ She wipes out a cup with a cloth she keeps tucked into her belt.   
You order a mug of every alcohol Candlehearth Hall offers, which thankfully for your purse isn’t much.

Elda says, ‘Don’t want much, do you?’ After uncorking a bottle she snorts, keeps pouring even when the contents rises, spills over the rim of the mug and saturates the counter. Her eyes never leave yours as she wipes the counter clean. ‘Bit early to get drunk. Or are you expecting guests?’   
You ignore her questions and instead fire back one of your own. Torbar. 

‘Rumour has it you’re doing some digging into Torbar’s death.’ Gossip travels fast in Windhelm. Elda looks you up and down. ‘He was a stranger to Windhelm, like you, but a true son of Skyrim. Not like some around here. Awful what happened to him.’ She looks at the back of her hand and picks at a nail. ‘If you ask me, suspect it was one of those Dunmer. Go poke around the Grey Quarter, wager you’d find the real murderer soon enough.' 

You ask if Torbar was in the night he died. 

'He had one drink, but didn’t sup here like he’d done other nights. Looked in good spirits, he was smiling. He came through here and I said, “what's with you? You have a grin on you like a hound who's just found a bone.” He said, “Edna, my fortune is about to change.” Then left. Next I hear he's dead.’ 

In the tavern space upstairs you take a table in the corner of the room away from the bustle of the morning kitchen, and the pipe playing bard whose voice this morning sings of the frost capped Velothi mountains glistening in the sun. 

When circumstances appear impossible we cling to what hope we can find, regardless how small it is. We gather it to ourselves, press it to our chests and hope it will grow. You look at the drinks with the hope they will tell you something.

It doesn’t take you long to sniff each drink and five minutes and one consumed mug of Honningbrew Mead later you’re still none the wiser where Torbar went before he died. All you know is none of these alcoholic beverages matches the scent found on Torbar’s clothes. 

You allow the last golden drop of Honningbrew Mead to melt on your tongue, conclude that in order for Torbar’s clothes to stink of this one beverage he must have been drinking a lot of it. The drink isn’t available at Candlehearth Hall, so where else had Torbar been drinking?

You rest your head on your hands and the light spilling in from the upper window becomes obscured by a familiar figure.

‘Is it not too early to get drunk? I am surprised at you, I expected better.’ Elien drags out the chair opposite, its legs grating against the wooden floor, and sits. What’s he doing here? You thought he never left his house, and as for entering a tavern - Elien’s top lip curls, and he eyes the bard as if she is using her pipes to shoot peas at people. The tavern’s response to an Altmer in their territory is mutual. Patrons scowl at Elien, a rat that hasn’t stayed hidden like it's supposed to, but none of them can be bothered to deal with it. Or perhaps they’re too scared? It’s no coincidence none will meet his eyes, you guess his mannerisms are too volatile, too unpredictable for some. 

Elien stares at you, golden eyes unblinking, hands splayed in front of him. ‘I have spoken to the guards. They have told me the Jarl has allowed you to investigate this most heinous of crimes.’ And leaning forward as if about to impart some great secret with you, says, ‘Am I to understand the accused is a friend of yours?’ 

Though weary of him, it’s clear the citizens of Winterhold respect Elien. They see him as an eccentric recluse who talks too much but is knowledgeable so you put up with him. Why else would the guards turn to him for advice on a mangled body, or why Elda would even allow him to step through the doors of her beloved Candlehearth Hall? Someone like Elien would be a powerful ally. So you tell him about Vilkas turning up in Winterhold although there are certain spots in the story tapestry you do not weave into your tale. Things like you feeling the pull of the wolf in the wilderness. Vilkas’ rough kiss and warm, delicious embrace, because they are for you and you alone. They keep your soul warm, a cloak of hope of what could be that your wrap around yourself when the night is too dark and there are no stars in the sky. 

Elien listens, head tilted to one side. When you’ve finished telling him about seeing the body and the cuts and - skipping the bit about Torbar being a werewolf (because you need more evidence of this) and meeting the woman because Elien would want you to introduce him and she strikes you as someone who would not want to meet him - how they look more like weapon cuts than bites, he licks his lips, steeples his fingers.

‘I have a confession.’

At that moment a cloud blocks out the sun, the ray coming through the window disappears, and is it you but the tavern seems quieter than it was before, as if everyone is listening in on the conversation. 

Elien whips his head around, as if he senses this too, and the bard right on cue starts up another song, no pipes this time: _‘The homestead is silent now you have flown, whispers of you - dead words in my ears - come back to me as I sit by the sea and wait for you.’_

‘When Elien thinks he has made a mistake, Elien confesses, tries to right what is wrong. I fear a mistake might have been made.’ 

You can’t imagine what Elien is rambling on about but your breath quickens because you can suspect. You suspect this is connected to Vilkas. In fact you are certain, like you are certain there will be snow on top of the Velothi Mountains tomorrow morning and the days after. 

‘It was early morning when the guards fetched me, so you will forgive me my errors. I had been up all night studying the legends of Molag Bal and how the first vampire came to be. It is entirely possible, in my excitement at the thought of a werewolf in Windhelm…’ He pauses, and for the first time since you met him, Elien can’t meet your gaze. ‘I might have seen teeth marks where there were none.’ 

His confession is like the Thu’um. It barrels into your chest. In his excitement… Your anger becomes tangible, a force in your hands which you slam onto the table. Elien’s excitement could cost Vilkas his life. 

There’s no excitement in Elien’s eyes when he says, ‘Now wait, I can try to make this right, if you allow me to.’ There’s a pleading in Elien’s voice you didn’t think could ever exist in someone like him, and this unexpected turn catches you unaware, allows Elien to elaborate when you should tell him to keep his words to himself and stay out of your way or at least respond with a sharp, swift punch to the gut. 

Elien’s hands come up in front of him as if he expects you to strike out. ‘I am very respected around here - as I have said before - known for my study into Manbeasts of all kinds specifically Sanines Lupinus. If anyone can help you and your friend, it is Elien.’ He smiles, a little too enthusiastically for someone whose actions has condemned someone to death, but that’s Elien for you. Would Elien even admitted to his mistake if no one had been investigating? 

‘A guard,’ Elien begins. ‘A guard came and fetched me the other morning. The sun had not yet risen, and I had retired to bed for a grand total of twenty minutes. He hammered on my door, and I told him to go away. He said that someone had reported an attack, and I said, well you're a guard that is your jurisdiction. The guard said that I - Elien - did not understand. Talked to me like I was a simpleton. The person who had reported the attack claimed to see a wolf. Not just any wolf, a creature that moved on its hind legs, as tall as a man if not bigger. Sound like any normal wolf to you?’ 

It doesn't, but you do not speculate on what the person saw, but instead that there was a person to witness it at all. Someone had been there. Seen this happen. Who? 

Elien witters on. ‘I could only go on by what I was told, and already influenced by the idea of a werewolf attack I admit I might of -’ His brow furrows. ‘- Got it wrong. It is hard for me to admit. I am most proud when it comes to my studies. However, if I have got something wrong, then it is right for me to do the most courteous of things and admit it.’ Elien raises an eyebrow. ‘Have I lost you?’

Elien’s words tumble through your mind. You can’t focus on any of them for long because that one detail - a witness - dominates all other thoughts. A witness. 

‘The guards didn’t elaborate,’ he says when you ask who the witness is. ‘But it could help your cause if you found out who they were. Ask them, did they see what they think they did?’ 

You nod in agreement.  

‘As for me,’ Elien drums his fingers against the table. ‘Would it help if I took another look at the body?’ 

The bard’s song ends. Her lover is dead in a war fought overseas and she’ll never see him again. 

* * *

There is nothing to show where Torbar died. No trampled bushes where the werewolf apparently came crashing through, but this is the spot according to the guards, in front of the row of farmsteads by where the White River cleaves the lands. As for the witness, the guards don’t know who they were. You curse them under your breath for their incompetence, but they sight the war and lack of personnel and with so many things to do and too few people, things get overlooked. They can't even describe the person save the witness was a woman wearing a hooded cloak as is customary in this frigid weather. Unless by luck you stumble across them then, the witness is a dead end. 

Your heart sinks. Hope seems further away now than it did yesterday. The clues are there, but there is no way of getting to them. A raging river blocks your path but you don't have the materials needed to build a bridge. 

You ask around at the farms but it is what you expected, no one saw or heard anything. Suprising as werewolves aren’t the most subtle of creatures.   
But there is silence. Silence in the words they speak for their words mean nothing. And this silence follows you as you trudge back into the cloying embrace of the heart of Windhelm and the tall walls that choke it. A silence that sucks the sound from everything. The wind blows but you do not hear it, only feel the rush of snowflakes against your cheeks. People might talk as you pass them in the streets, but you only register their movements, shake your head if someone holds out their hands - a coin to spare? No. This rate you might need all the coin you have to bribe Vilkas’ way out of prison and away from the executioners axe.   

Back at the prison Vilkas sits in his cell on the naked stone floor, legs drawn up and back against the wall. There’s a look on his face that suggests he knows you haven’t been successful in your endeavours but he masks it with a weary smile - he doesn’t want to talk about that. Instead he opts to talk about Jorrvaskr and what the Companions might be doing. He mentions his brother, no ill will in his voice which is surprising considering the night before he suspected you and his brother were together.

‘Think Farkas will have bested Aela in hunting?’ 

You smile at the memory of Aela betting Farkas he couldn’t catch breakfast because he couldn’t be quiet enough and therefore couldn’t hunt. Aela was so certain Farkas' hulking form would scare off any prey in the immediate vicinity. Farkas however, proved her wrong. 

Vilkas chuckles to himself at first and then looking up catches your eye and you share the laughter together. 

He strips off his shirt and bends over a bucket and splashes water in his face. Slicks back his hair with his wet hands and droplets of water roll down his face, his bare chest. The charcoal he favours under this eyes has washed away, and a beard replaces the usual favoured stubble. A different man looks at you then the man Vilkas was the night before last. A man who looks different, and a man who views the world differently.

You ask him if there is anything he needs. 

‘A better place to sleep? Look at this…’ He pokes his finger through a tear in his shirt. ‘If I don’t get executed Old Tilda will kill me anyway. She only repaired another shirt of mine a few weeks ago.’ 

There are three marks on his cell wall, a line through one. Vilkas already given up on this day. 

Night falls.

* * *

You console your disappointment with mead, nurse the mug in your hands with your head downcast. Just the one, though you were tempted to order a few jugs, see how long it took you to drown your feelings. But you need a clear head. Sod what you're feeling, it’s not about you. It’s about him. Vilkas.    
You throw your head back, swallow the last drops, and when you're done and focusing on the tavern in Candlehearth Hall once more, your eyes connect with the woman standing in front of your table. Not just any woman. The woman. Hircine’s follower. 

‘That bad?’ 

Swallowing the temptation to say yes, that bad, because your friend faces loosing his life for something he hasn’t even done, you instead just nod. That bad. 

Where’s she been anyway, and how long has she been standing at the table before you noticed her are questions you don’t ask. She doesn’t strike you as the answering questions type, apart from if they are on her terms and she’s humouring you. Nor do you ask her about her allegiance to Hircine, or how she ended up with lycanthropy - because everyone has a story to tell. 

The woman seats herself opposite you. By the Nine, what’s her name even? 

‘Alvari,’ she says as if she can read your mind. ‘My name, in case you are wondering.’ She throws her plated ponytail over her shoulder. Unlike Elien no one takes notice of her. She’s a Nord after all. Which is ironic because they distrust Elien but he’s not the one hiding a beast beneath his skin.

You wouldn’t think so to look at Alvari, but then no one would suspect you either.    
‘How did your investigation go?’ 

Telling her everything - because there’s no point keeping anything from Alvari - you let her know the alcohol Torbar drank isn't sold here and then about how no one saw anything. 

‘So why do you look so disappointed?’ 

Because today came to nothing, you are no nearer finding the truth than you were this morning. 

‘Are you certain? You know Torbar didn’t drink here the night he died, that he was a werewolf, and that there was a witness.’ 

You stop slouching and sit up. Alvari is right. You don’t know who killed Torbar, but you have information you didn’t have this morning, and more than you thought. 

‘Seems the best thing to do would be to find this witness.’ 

Alvari smiles, and then you’re interrupted and you wonder if the witness has found you instead, only that’s not the case because it’s Farkas.    
‘You’re safe,’ he says, relief showing on his face.

His words by pass you for a second because all you can think is: Farkas is here. A while ago you left the Companions to keep them safe. If Farkas had turned up then you would have been infuriated, but now… Now things are different, and of all people you wish to see this is one of them.    
You’re on your feet, speaking his name, well aware there’s a daft grin on your face. Both of you open your arms, and Farkas is on you before you can get to him, taking one large stride and nearly knocking the wind out of your lungs. You can feel his breath in your hair, and he’s warm and smells of horse and leather. 

‘Thank Shor you’re safe.’ Farkas breathes out and you feel him relax, his words still haven’t dawned on you, and it is Alvari who, looking at you two hugging says, ‘What do you mean, “You’re safe”?’ 

You part, and Farkas meets your eyes, checking to see if it is safe to speak in front of Alvari. In response, you nod your approval.    
‘Been tracking you since Vilkas left to find you. Told him not to be stupid, you’d be fine. He didn’t seem convinced. Mood he was in thought he’d get himself and you into trouble, so I headed out from Jorrvaskr two days after he left.’

You sit back down and Farkas takes the seat next to you. Alvari who brought a jug of ale with her, pours a mug for Farkas who mutters thanks, gulps back the drink and wipes the remnants from his beard. ‘Have been riding all night. Couldn’t stop. Not since…’ 

He sucks air in through his nostrils, lets it out slowly through his mouth. ‘Last night I joined a group of people around a campfire, we traded and bartered and when night fell swapped stories. The last one of our storytellers was a man. He identified himself as a former member of the Silver Hand.’    
The Silver Hand. Your blood freezes over. Werewolf hunters and those who murdered Kodlak. Scourge of the Circle. You and Vilkas, Farkas and Aela and all of Jorrvaskr called war on them. You wiped them out, save for a few fringe groups that scattered across Skyrim.

Alvari looks on in interest. 

‘He told us a story, how he was on his way back from Winterhold after killing  someone suffering from…’ Farkas looks from Alvari to you, and you understand this to be him saying, shall I continue, can we trust this person? 

His hesitation is unnecessary, Alvari finishes his sentence: ‘Like us. Blessed with lycanthropy.’ 

For once you are thankful for the bard singing and her rowdy spectators because no one save those around your table can hear your conversation.    
Farkas and Alvari’s gazes meet. There’s a quiver of a smile beneath Farkas’ beard. ‘If you say so.’ Then the smile disappears and his attention is for you only. ‘I thought… worried it might be you or Vilkas.’ 

And you are thinking, this man, this former member of the Silver Hand has admitted to killing a werewolf in Winterhold. You think, this man killed Torbar, and you barely hear Farkas ask where Vilkas is.


End file.
